Juggle
by LittleGreenBudgie
Summary: Little Guy would never complain about seeing more of Naomi; however, he just couldn't focus on the case with her so close that he could feel her breath on his neck as she read over his shoulder. Little GuyNaomi


There had to be a law against that shirt.

It would be a nearly-forgotten local ordinance penned in a musty, foot-thick book tucked away in the back room of some old courtroom. Hell, it might've even been covered in his FBI training. Those five hundred classroom hours had gone over a lot of material. It was more than likely that "a shirt that shows off that much flawless skin is not allowed in the vicinity of any male agents, especially one easily flustered Agent Navel" was in there _somewhere_.

"—burn marks on the corpse's shoulder. What do you think?"

Little Guy was snapped out of his reverie by the abrupt stop in his partner's words. He stared blankly at her, knowing that he was supposed to answer but not having the slightest idea as to what he had been asked.

"Yes?" he tried.

From the dumbstruck silence coming from Naomi, that neither was the correct answer nor did it even make sense. He swallowed thickly and nervously adjusted his tie as she stared him down. For all that Little Guy could handle the dangers of being a federal agent without flinching, he never could stand up to those harsh blue eyes.

"Were you even paying attention to me?" she asked coolly. Naomi glanced downwards at her low-cut shirt, following his thoughts as surely as she followed criminal leads. "Or rather," she amended, "were you even paying attention to _my words_?"

Heat rose to his cheeks, and he looked back to his computer screen. _Caught me red-handed, _he thought. _Figures._

"Sorry. I'm, uh…a bit out of it today. Would you mind repeating that?"

"The burn marks on the victim's shoulder," she reiterated with exasperation. "From the intensity of it, it doesn't look like she was pushed into the fireplace, as your people thought. Have you seen anything like this before?"

He took the photograph from her hand, glad to steer the topic away from his blunder. Little Guy had quite a bit of experience with burns, given the frequency with which they showed up in investigation. Barring the lab tech specialized in fire damage, he was likely the best person she could ask.

"You're not going to believe this. It looks like something, well…melted on her. That's definitely not congruous with a simple wood fire," the agent said after a moment, handing the picture back to her.

"Melted? Like synthetic clothing under too much heat?" Naomi speculated.

"Look at the marks on the bone. That's way too hot for a little polyester burn, Dr. Kimishima. If you'd ask me-"

"I did ask you," she cut in, a small smile touching her lips.

"…Right. Well, this burn goes to the bone. For something to be that hot and in such a small area, I'd say something like liquid metal was poured on her. You'll have to check the wound to see if any residual metal is in there, but that's my guess."

"Well, if that's true, then there's no way she died in the manor…" Naomi mused.

Little Guy profusely thanked that she'd let his daydreaming slide; when it came to investigating, she had total tunnel vision. It was likely she wouldn't even remember it if he didn't do it again, given the seriousness of that particular case. She struck off for the crime scene without another word.

Of course, given who she was, it would be incredibly hard _not_ to stare…

The agent wasn't sure whether to grin or groan at the turn of circumstances that had dumped the proud forensic investigator in his cramped office. Her scanner had been broken by a clumsy janitor, and so for the current case, she'd been stuck relaying evidence manually. On one hand, Little Guy would never complain about seeing more of Naomi, but on the other, he just couldn't focus on the case with her so close that he could feel her breath on his neck as she looked over his shoulder.

"Get a hold of yourself," he muttered aloud. "You're an FBI agent, not a lovestruck teenager."

It was easy enough to say when he was alone in his familiar office with nothing more than the faint smell of perfume to hint that Naomi had been there mere moments before. He had work to do, and without her there to distract him, he could actually try to get it done. There were a half dozen chat windows open on his computer, each one keeping him in contact with a different branch of the forensics team, although the tab that usually displayed Naomi's avatar was conspicuously absent. She was off poking around the house of the victim's father for any other leads, although from her earlier words she thought it unlikely that she'd find any.

He couldn't help but worry about her. Little Guy knew he shouldn't; Naomi carried a gun and was more than capable of taking care of herself. Yet whenever he tried to remind himself of that, his mind fed him nightmarish memories of the Raging Bomber and the Portland Airport. He vividly remembered how his partner just stood there as the trigger fell from the bomber's hand, and how he had reacted without conscious thought to save her. She would have died if she hadn't been knocked to the ground—of that, he was certain. Ugly red burns still scarred him from that incident, splayed across his back like a cruel lover's fingertips.

Naomi didn't know about them. She'd left the scene when he took command and hadn't seen him slump against the wall, his blazer charred and soaked with blood. It had taken two policemen and a foulmouthed emergency medic to get him to relinquish command, true, but that same doctor had reduced him to an agony-ridden wreck taking care of the wounds. Since the majority of his communication with Naomi was digital, she never noticed his stiff movements, never noticed his strong reliance on aloe and painkillers for the next few weeks, never noticed the dark circles under his eyes from too many sleepless nights. The only way she'd ever see his scars now would be if she saw him shirtless, and although the thought was titillating, Little Guy realized that the likeliest way she'd get him unclothed would be if he was lying on a cold steel table in the back room as she autopsied him.

Those burns served as a constant reminder that no matter how tough Naomi was, she needed him sometimes…even if it took a freak case like the bombing to prove it.

_You know you're messed up when you'd almost like your friend to be put into mortal danger so you'd have a chance to rescue her again, _Little Guy idly mused. _I bet there's some sort of support group for impossible romance like this. Hi, I'm Agent Navel, and I'm so hopelessly attracted to my partner that a hostage situation seems like a good idea to catch her eye. It's been four years since I've last gotten laid, and the woman I like won't even call me by name. Thank you, and_ _yes, I'll be back next week._

His tangent was cut off by a chime from his computer.

"Talk to me, Little Guy. What do you have?" Naomi asked, not even waiting for him to acknowledge her.

"Well, we're still working on it. But if you've got anything else for me to analyze, I'd be happy to take a swing at it," he offered.

"The manor was a false lead," she started, cutting right to the chase. "However, the family owned an auto parts business."

"So?" Little Guy asked, confused. The father-daughter fight they'd originally suspected would have had nothing to do with cars. He'd dealt with factory injuries before. The corpse had no signs of damage from heavy machinery.

"So they've got a metalworking plant. I'd like you to look at this section of flooring. I'll be there in a few."

She was knocking at the door almost before he had a chance to take off his headset, and then he was back in his usual niche, rattling off every obscure fact related to smelting that he could think of to satisfy Naomi's extensive questioning. It didn't help that he knew little more than she did, and all too soon he fell silent. Little Guy reached for the next photo without pause.

It was of a battered old harmonica, smudged with grease and fingerprints. From the rust and damage to the metal, it hadn't been taken care of very well.

"I want the names and IDs of every set of fingerprints on there, as well as an analysis of the blood on the back. I've got the real thing down in the lab already, but I thought you'd like a look first."

"That's thoughtful of you," he remarked, surprised. Naomi usually didn't give him or his team much of a break, and any favoritism she showed him left the agent positively preening with pride. He'd missed the bloodstain on his first look at the harmonica, assuming it was rust, but if Naomi didn't know he'd overlooked it, he wouldn't correct her. She already made enough jibes about his competence. It would be suicide to give her material for any more.

"If you freaked out like you did with the guitar, I wanted to be on hand to personally beat some sense into you," she teased with a playful grin.

"That guitar was a priceless relic. This thing? It's a piece of junk you could get at any old dollar store," he sniffed. "Although anyone who treats an instrument like this deserves to be punished, no matter how shabby it is."

Naomi rolled her eyes.

"I thought you said you only knew bits and pieces about music. What's the big deal?"

"Hey, if someone abuses his instrument this much, think of how he treats his date!" Little Guy shot back. "I tell you, my guitar's in pristine condition—"

"…abusing his date, hm?" she mused. Naomi's tone of voice had taken on that tone she got when she had suddenly discovered the last important detail in a case. He knew better than to ask; she'd only chide him for his inability to figure it out on his own, or for his impatience.

"Little Guy, do we have the victim's boyfriend in custody right now?"

"I thought you'd ask that," he replied smugly. "I've already got a statement from him. Want me to send the file to your recorder?"

"Please."

She tousled his messy hair as the file sent, already heading back to her own office to listen. A blush rode high on his cheeks, and he sheepishly turned away, even though no one was there to see it. It was silly that a man his age would come undone so easily. It was just how things were with her, though. From the moment she'd seized him by the tie, she'd seized him by the heartstrings, too.

_That almost sounds poetic. It would make a good pickup line, _Little Guy thought. _Of course, the one woman it applies to is also the one woman I wouldn't dare try hitting on, but it's pretty good nonetheless._

_Welcome to the Hopeless Romance Support Group._ _Hi, I'm Agent Navel, and I'm supposed to be catching killers that pose a threat to national security, but that sort of thing pales in comparison to dreaming up pickup lines that I'll never have the courage to say. It's been four years since I've last gotten laid, and the woman I like thinks I'm a moron. Thank you, and_ _yes, I'll be back next week._

It wouldn't take long for Naomi to pick out inconsistencies with the boyfriend's testimony, he reminded himself. She would want the tests done by then. There was absolutely no time for him to daydream.

He turned back to his computer, checking on the results of the harmonica's testing. It looked like there were only two sets of prints on it—one set that was unidentified and only appeared on the corner, and another set belonging to the victim's lover that covered the whole thing. From the look of it, Little Guy would guess that it belonged to the latter. What caught his attention, though, was the blood. Not only was it the victim's, but from the look of things, it was fairly recent. Naomi would be interested in that bit of information.

The agent keyed in a request to voice chat, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for her to accept.

"Hey there, Little Guy. I take it the tests have come back?"

"The fingerprint analysis is done. Only two sets of prints on the harmonica, but from the look of it, it's definitely the boyfriend's instrument," he informed her. "The blood's also the victims. Is that all?"

"No, but it will do for now. I need to examine the body once more. Phone me when you get the metals tests back, will you? I'll pick them up, so don't bother with that."

"Got it," he said, but Naomi had already signed off. It wouldn't be long before she confidently strode into his office, demanding an arrest warrant. He had already filled out what bits of paperwork he could, but until he got the culprit's personal information and the full details of the crime, he couldn't do much more. It always amused him that he had so much downtime in a job that the media depicted as action-packed and full of intrigue. Another quirk of working with Naomi, he supposed; he was expected to do the job she told him to, whether or not it was what he had been trained for. It was just his luck that she thought he was best suited to be her personal secretary.

He smiled at the thought of it, dialing Naomi's number to remind her to get the lab results. To no great surprise, she'd grown tired of waiting for him and had contacted the lab team on her own.

The forensic investigator was at his door in a matter of minutes. She didn't ever grin or celebrate at a solved case, as Little Guy's coworkers in the lab did, because for Naomi, even a solved murder was still murder. She saw no reason to glorify death in any way, and he reluctantly followed her lead, although he could never quite suppress his euphoric sense of accomplishment. She calmly laid down the details he needed to secure an arrest warrant. He finished typing almost soon as she finished talking then looked to her for the next order.

"Are you going to assist in the arrest?" Naomi asked.

"This case is pretty open-and-close. I'd just get in the way," he admitted. She nodded, as if unsurprised—he only got involved when the situation grew particularly dire, and her query was simply out of politeness.

"You know, it's been a while since you've visited."

Little Guy paused, confused. She worked in the same building as he did. Visiting her office was tantamount to poking his head out the door and waving, which she'd assuredly find as stupid as he did.

"I beg your pardon?"

"…Alyssa misses you. She hasn't seen you since she got out of the hospital," Naomi explained, her tone softening, as it always did when Alyssa came up. He felt a stab of jealousy. It was silly to be jealous of her adopted daughter, of course, but tenderness of any sort from Naomi was as rare as a straightforward murder in their line of work. He certainly hadn't been shown either.

"I thought Alyssa only saw me once or twice. Why would she miss me?"

"Well, she just happened to like you, despite your foolishness," Naomi said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "And she's heard all about how helpful you are here and she'd like to personally thank you for your hard work in keeping me safe."

"That's nice of her—wait, you told her I was helpful?" he asked, surprised.

"I can give credit where it's due. But Alyssa would very much like to see you at dinner tonight, and so I'm inviting you so she can, ah, personally thank you."

Naomi winked conspiratorially, and all of the sudden he understood. It left him feeling like an idiot for not noticing sooner, but he had the feeling that Sherlock Holmes would feel like an idiot next to Naomi. His cheeks flushed, heartbeat quickening.

"…I see," Little Guy murmured, barely able to keep his enthusiasm under control. "And when does Alyssa want me to pick her up?"

"Alyssa will be fine with any time after six."

If he worked quickly, he could be done with this paperwork by four, giving him two hours to get ready. He'd pick out his second-best suit—Naomi had already expressed her dislike for his white one—shower to get the smell of blood off of him, and try to coax his hair into some semblance of order.

He realized that Naomi was eyeing him expectantly, and he pushed aside his planning for later.

"All right, then. I guess I'll see you—er, I mean, Alyssa—then."

"That'll be wonderful," she replied, turning to leave. "Oh, and by the way? This is a semi-formal occasion, so you'd best wear your tie. The cute blue one, preferably."

He grinned ear to ear as her footsteps faded.

_Welcome to the Hopeless Romance Support Group._ _Hi, I'm Agent Navel, and I'm no longer in need of these meetings. It's been four years since I've last gotten laid, but I'm going to dinner with the woman I like, so I guess it's not as much of a concern. Thank you, but no, I won't be here next week._


End file.
